


The Soldier and The Prince

by Feel_How_It_Beats (1_jew_in_a_room)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Canon time peroid, Come Eating, Drabble Collection, Drinking, Good and russian, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Not In Chronological Order, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other characters will come and go and be minor, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Smut, taking requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15931946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1_jew_in_a_room/pseuds/Feel_How_It_Beats
Summary: A collection of Danatole drabbles. The title and description of each chapter will serve as the title and description of each drabble. I am taking requests and you can comment whatever you'd like me to write or email me at amomeneedup@gmail.com. Any comments or suggestions are appreciated! Thank you!





	1. A Chance Encounter, A Meeting Of Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole and Dolokhov meet and become friendly. Mentions of sex but no actual sex. Alcohol consumption and gambling.

          The club itself was dim, the air slightly clouded by cigar smoke and the sounds of the men around him and the fluttering of cards. This didn’t bother Dolokhov in the slightest - on the contrary it served his purpose all the better. All of the men around him reeked of alcohol and good-natured oblivion and Dolokhov masterfully put up the front of his own camaraderie towards these idiots. A well placed smile here, an affirmative sound there, and he was able to keep his usual uncaring mask while also seeming fully invested. In his own mind, though, he was carefully tallying numbers and noting those around him. He needed to get all the money he could tonight.

 

        Fyodor Dolokhov was not a warm man, not a romantic man, and certainly not a man who often thought of beauty or deep emotion. He would cheat people of their rubles, being sure to lose a small amount every once in awhile to dispel any rumors of foul play, and leave feeling no guilt. Clubs were not places to make friends to Fyodor, or to go for the enjoyment of company - though he did enjoy his work very much. A sick sort of pleasure came to him from robbing others. It came naturally.

 

        That night did not seem any different to him. The heavy air and copious drink (which he gave the illusion of taking heavy part in but only drank enough to have a pleasant warmth in his bones) put a familiar mindset into his head. The familiarity was comforting: there was an order to things here. As he stood, however, from a fairly large win to go fetch another drink his eyes happened to fall upon a young man speaking to a few others beside the card tables. His breath wasn’t taken away and he didn’t swoon - something about him simply continued to draw his eye. The strawberry blonde hair painstakingly sculpted, the graceful and attractive angles of his face, the joy dancing in his grey eyes. Fyodor blinked slowly and a familiar feeling rose in the pit of his stomach: _he wanted to ruin this man._ Something else twisted in him though - a very alien feeling that he pushed away immediately. _He wanted to know his body and mind, take it and make it his._ Something about the joy and lust for life in those grey eyes drew him in and somehow, even in that small moment, Fyodor had the twinkle of a feeling that this young man would be his ruin.

 

* * *

 

 

        Anatole Kuragin loved clubs. He loved the drink and the smoke, the close bodies and speech more unbridled by the strict rules of society. He especially loved the drink and the men. Anatole was a man of desire, driven by it and ruled by it in one confusing game. To his credit, he did not think of it much. He did not need to think much of most things, in fact, and he flourished in the luxury he lived in. A rich prince with money to spare and pleasure to find was indeed a lovely thing to be. When at brothels he would flirt shamelessly with all of the women and this shamelessness was not ingenious - he saw no reason for shame in sex (no matter who it was with) for why would something so beautiful and pleasurable be wrong? He felt no shame in drinking himself into a stumbling, foolish state so that he would not remember anything the next day because he saw no problems with it at all. He wore his heart on the expensive fabric of his sleeve and indulged his wants as they came and went, never thinking of the after - only the now.

 

        This is not to say that he was bad in society or seemed a foolish young idiot. He was charming and suave, somehow saying the right things and managing to avoid repercussion time and time again. He was no fool, either, very intuitive with the body language of others. It was not a conscious awareness, but more of an instinctual knowledge that his brain took into account without him noticing. He knew that he could not unabashedly flirt with these men. The act of courting another young man for a night was a delicate dance and Anatole was skilled - knew all of the steps by heart.

 

        The pretty young man did not discriminate between who he loved with mind and body, whoever took his fancy be it man or woman was worthy of him for however long he was interested. Though very drunk and full of a joyous sort of energy bubbling inside of him he was still very aware of the contact around him. A young man’s hand on his shoulder a touch too long to be simply friendly or an older man’s knowing gaze on him, the weight of his eyes too heavy to be a stranger’s glance. Anatole didn’t necessarily need a partner tonight - he was always open to any opportunity that piqued his interests but was enjoying himself immensely with or without the promise of fulfilling the carnal desire that rose at the idea of roaming over another body.

 

        He had fallen into light conversation with a group of young men about this, that, and whatever else. Anatole had never been one for cards - a touch too impulsive and his mind never on the numbers. The conversation wasn’t in an area of his express interest and he felt eyes trained on him. He found himself instinctively looking to find the source. A man looking about his age if not a tad older had his piercing blue eyes on him, searching and examining. He looked rough and almost imposing and slightly out of place in the friendly atmosphere of the club. Anatole’s breath did leave him. _Here is the man who will occupy my mind tonight_ , thought Anatole with a smile curling his handsome lips. Something deep and strong struck him steadily. _Here is a man who I want to know._

 

* * *

 

 

        The following interactions were a bit of a blur - Anatole smiled at Fyodor, his expression handsome and sincere. Fyodor did not smile back as he followed his original purpose of a glass of vodka but Anatole would not be deterred so easily. He followed the rough young man with the excuse of getting himself a drink as well and then finally they crossed paths as they waited. Anatole easily started up a conversation and was undaunted by Fyodor’s cold, sarcastic raport. To Fyodor himself the ease in which they lapsed into this friendly sort of speech was surprising. Something about their personalities meshed together cleanly and he pushed away the want to interact more with the man. That is, until he learned of his name and stature.

 

        “My name is Anatole Kuragin, my new friend,” pausing to take a drink he gave Fyodor a charming grin, “and yourself?” _Kuragin._ The alcohol glistened on his lips. The corners of Fyodor’s mouth curled up in a slight smile, gazing at Anatole with a hidden new pleasure. If Fyodor truly believed in a god he would’ve thanked him now. He’d managed to catch the attention of a _prince_.

 

        “Fyodor Dolokhov.” He said simply and drained his own glass in one go. He had earned enough that night and befriending this man would be more profitable in the future. Some part of him whispered that that was simply an excuse but Fyodor skillfully ignored this voice. Conversation followed that neither Anatole nor Fyodor had much interest in but neither were going to bring attention to this fact. Eventually as the night wound to a close Anatole fixed his coat on and turned back to his new friend, genuinely hoping he would see him again soon.

 

        “I am hosting a party of friends at my estate on Tuesday and would be delighted if you’d attend, Fyodor. Please say you will.” A smile of triumph flashed across Fyodor’s features, mistaken by Anatole for excitement. The time was set for Fyodor’s arrival and, unbeknownst to him, for the beginning of Fyodor’s undoing. Anatole returned home overjoyed and drunk, falling into his bed more than climbing in and falling asleep quickly.


	2. Blossoming in the Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole and Fedya share a peaceful moment by the fire and Fedya becomes confused. No trigger warnings except for scars and tooth rotting fluff. Thank you to a_letter_from_marya_dmitrievna for requesting!

        A heavy snow was falling outside but Fedya was not cold. He was remarkably comfortable, enjoying watching the snowfall outside and comparing his current life to the one he used to know. He hummed softly as he carded his hand through silky blonde hair. The fire crackled happily beside them and the dark rum in their tea only served to warm them further.

 

        The two of them were curled together by the fireplace, so close that it was hard to tell who was who in the delicate tangle of limbs. They were alone in the room and free to express their love for one another in its full splendor. Anatole shifted to place a soft, chaste kiss to Fedya’s jaw and laughed slightly at the tickle of his dark beard. A deep, grounded contentment rose in Fedya’s whole body and despite his best efforts to push such feelings away it was constant. It had only one condition: the presence of Anatole Kuragin.

 

        One of Fedya’s strong arms was wrapped around him and Anatole was surprised by his gentleness. Fedya - the same Fedya who’d won countless duels, Fedya the assassin, and here he was caressing his messy hair and holding him as if he were a precious treasure. A peaceful, beautiful quiet had fallen and neither of them had felt they needed to break it. Anatole smiled and shifted, turning so he could see his love’s face, and pressed soft kisses to his cheek, his forehead, his lips. Fedya felt as if he were glowing - whenever all of Anatole’s attention was on him he felt this way, like the world had turned upside-down and they were the only things rightside-up. Like a sudden light shined in him and lit even the oldest, darkest corners of him and in this light it was all somehow right. The world became dull without his Anatole there - back to the cold, dark, practical place it had always been in Fedya’s eyes. After the light had faded and the cold returned Fedya knew it was stupid, this feeling of deep love for Anatole, because he knew it could not last but now in the midst of the soft, brilliant glow nothing like that mattered.

 

        Anatole took in a breath of Fedya’s scent, crisp and smoky like winter. It was comforting and familiar by now and it made a smile dance in the depths of his bright gray eyes. He pushed Fedya’s shirt up a bit and traced his fingers lightly against the scars that littered his torso. The soldier didn’t flinch or push his hands away, he simply gazed down as Anatole’s dexterous fingers skated feather-light across him. The pads of Anatole’s fingers were soft yet worn from years pressed against the strings of his violin, nimble and precise, where Fedya’s were rough and steady with a constellation of scars and marks from nicks and scrapes. Here, with his prince running those deft fingers gently over faded wounds and the warmth steadily growing in his chest and bones, Fedya felt something he never thought he’d find - peace.

 

        Glancing up from the artwork of Fedya’s skin, Anatole felt a flutter of pride at Fedya’s expression. His dark, brutal Fedya was gazing down at him with the softest of smiles gracing his lips, relaxed and open as Anatole had never seen him. Sudden tears welled at the corners of his eyes and his hands stopped. Fedya quirked his eyebrows and his smile became a line of concern, but Anatole shook his handsome head and kissed the corner of his mouth as the tears tracked delicate roadways down his cheeks. Deep blue eyes tracked Anatole’s face like a hunter’s as Fedya searched for what he’d done wrong, how he’d shattered the peace, and a darker part of him wondered if he did nothing at all - if the moment was never meant to be his and he’d stolen it from someone more capable. The habitual mask began to melt back onto his face but everything stopped with three simple words.

 

         _“Fedya, you’re beautiful.”_ Anatole almost whispered, his tone shaking with reverence. All things stopped within Fedya. Confusion passed over his usually confident and swaggering features and his breath caught in his throat. _Beautiful._ So many things burst in him at once and though he asked what it meant, he could find no answer in himself. Fedya was the one who sorted things out, Anatole was the one who could never understand, but in this moment his naive Anatole looked at him as if here were some great puzzle he’d found an answer to while Fedya found his mind quizzically blank.

 

        “What-” his angelic Anatole interrupted his words with a sweet kiss and Fedya let his eyes slip closed, floating in this strange confused void in his mind.

 

        After he’d gone home and finished his day, even after his mask had resumed and the glow had faded and he lay in his bed staring at the dark ceiling, the words echoed and bounced in his mind.

 

        “ _Fedya, you’re beautiful… Fedya, you’re beautiful…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin plays violin and anyone who says he can't can fight me, thank you, goodnight.


	3. Passion and Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole and Fyodor's first kiss and subsequent fuck. Definitely NSFW, trigger warning for Smut and unspoken consent. It's fully consensual but never explicitly spoken about.

        Their first kiss was not necessarily romantic. Passionate, yes, and full of feelings - but not romantic. It was after a party and Anatole tasted of vodka as Fyodor pressed him against the wall and kissed him. They had simply been standing and talking, the last ones left after a long night of bets and drinking and dancing. Tension had been hanging so heavily in the air that when Fyodor finally pressed his lips hungrily to Anatole’s they both felt a bit of weight drip off of them. It didn’t come as a surprise to either of them and Anatole felt a fire being fanned in him as Fyodor caged him against the ornate wallpaper with his arms.

 

        Anatole’s eyes drifted closed as a warmth flooded his chest but Fyodor left his eyes half-open. He watched Anatole against him, watched _his_ Anatole as he returned the kiss eagerly and pressed his hands to his chest. Anatole felt Fyodor’s lips curl in a smile against his mouth as he bit his lower lip hard enough to make Anatole whine softly. Fyodor watched _his_ beautiful Anatole tilt his head slightly and felt him pull him closer. He felt the blonde grow more desperate and impassioned and simmered with the satisfaction of knowing it was for him.

 

        When they pulled away they were breathless and hot. Anatole could feel Fyodor’s breath against his flushed face and could see the want and fire in his deep blue eyes. A shiver ran down his spine and he stared back into that deep expanse, searching for something. Some reciprocation of the feelings beginning to flutter in his own body. Fyodor stared back with a biting hunger that consumed Anatole’s mind and pushed him to reach around and tangle his hand in the short, curly hair at the back of Fyodor’s head.

 

         _“Fedya,”_ His melodic voice sounded sinful and the use of the affectionate name sent electricity across Fyodor’s skin. He traced the curve of Anatole’s smooth jaw with his thumb, eyeing his porcelain skin. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Anatole felt himself become enraptured and impossibly obsessed in that moment. All thoughts outside of the intoxicating pull of their bodies had been forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

        Fyodor backed up and took Anatole by his waist, taking him with him. An unspoken agreement had been reached. With a sharp, quick turn Fyodor had led Anatole out the door and into a small side room usually meant for smoking. Taking a deep breath of the thick air and wearing a devious, cocky sort of smirk Fedya pushed Anatole down onto the couch. Anatole looked up through his lashes at his friend - his lover. Fedya couldn’t help but think how beautiful this view beneath him was; statuesque and intimate, Anatole shifting under his gaze with the anticipation of the actions to come. He relished the deep arousal at the knowledge that this beauty was _his_ to ruin. A pretty flush crept across Anatole’s cheeks as Fedya moved on top of him.

 

        Vests and shirts were quickly shed and Fedya went about exploring Anatole’s pale body with his hands and his lips. He sucked deep bruises into his ribcage and pressed harsh kisses to his collarbone that left Anatole making soft, needy sounds of appreciation. Rough fingers caressed his nipples and scratched his shoulder.

 

        “Fedya, _please,_ ” Anatole’s hips twitched up towards Fedya’s shamelessly, his arousal obvious through his trousers. The corner of Fedya's mouth quirked up and his eyes sparked with a dominant glint.

 

        “Needy, are we?” His voice was sharp and mocking and so _attractive_ and it only made Anatole struggle all the more underneath him.

 

        “S'il te plaît, j'ai besoin de toi,*”  The french slipped breathily from his lips and drew Fedya in even more. If he weren’t so desperate himself - barely holding onto his composure with a smug sort of pride - he’d tease Anatole until he was sobbing with need for him. But Fedya was desperate and impatient so he tucked those delicious ideas away and quickly undid his trousers.

 

        He bit his lip as the open air chilled by nighttime hit his erection. Anatole stared openly, admiring his size and shape, and Fedya pulled away Anatole’s trousers and undergarments as well. The flush painted itself in darker shades across Anatole’s pale skin and his eyes were heavy with lust. He reached down into a pocket of his discarded trousers and handed Fedya the small vile he acquired.

 

        “You were prepared.” Fedya snickered and coated the fingers of his right hand in the slick oil. He spread Anatole before him and pressed a finger to his entrance, already pushing it inside of him. A moan escaped Anatole’s lips as he forced his body to relax around the intrusion. Fedya gave Anatole little time to adjust when his finger was fully inside of him, adding a second and stretching him quickly and roughly. Throughout his preparation Fedya kissed and nipped at his sensitive nipples and used his other hand to tease maddeningly at the head of his cock. Verging on the edge of overstimulation, Anatole cried out and gripped Fedya’s strong shoulders so hard that his knuckles turned white.

 

        Everything suddenly pulled away and Anatole whined at the loss. Above him, Fedya moaned lowly as he coated his cock in a generous amount of oil. He took Anatole’s hip in his rough hand and guided himself to his entrance. As he pushed himself inside of his lover his breath stuttered and he bit his lip harshly. Anatole whimpered and twitched, his fingernails digging into him and leaving crescent-moons littering his skin.

 

        Once he was fully hilted inside of his lover Fedya almost immediately began a rough, even pace. Their sounds of pleasure filled the small room, Anatole’s breathy cries echoing in Fedya’s head and his own low moans driving Anatole mad beneath him. Fedya bowed his head down to kiss Anatole’s trembling lips harshly. He reached around to grab a fistful of his hair and pulled. He took pleasure in the whine that Anatole breathed into his mouth.

 

        Fedya angled his hips and hit his prostate. Anatole’s eyes, previously shut tightly, flew open and stared upwards as hot pleasure raced through his whole body. A smug, possessive expression passed across Fedya’s features as he hit the spot again and again. Anatole tightened around him and he quickened his pace.

 

        “F-Fedya, _fuck!_ ” Anatole gasped out. Fedya’s thrusts were becoming more erratic and uneven, his moans growing rougher and more breathy as he lost his composure entirely. His back arched beautifully as he plunged deeply into Anatole and finished in him, continuing his irregular pace until the intense buzz of heat turned to a deep, satisfying hum in his entire body. Anatole moaned loudly at the feeling of Fedya filling him and trembled when he finally pulled out of him. His own untouched cock still stood erect and dripping with precum.

 

        Fedya gripped the couch to steady himself and took a few stabilizing breaths as he gazed down at the gorgeous mess writhing under him. Anatole’s hair was a messy halo surrounding his head, bruises littering his pale skin and his lips kiss-swollen and red. His hand moved to grip his needy cock but Fedya pushed his hand away and replaced it with his own. He stroked him quickly and bit the shell of his ear lightly, whispering filthy compliments which made Anatole breathless.

 

        “ _See how I ruined you, Tolya? You’re mine. Only mine.”_

 

        With a final deft flick of Fedya’s skillful wrist Anatole came into his hand and across his own stomach. The air caught in his throat and his eyes squeezed shut. He shook as Fedya continued to whisper praise softly to him. After they’d both caught their breath and placed a few rough kisses to each other’s lips they cleaned themselves off with a small, soft towel.

 

        They were both exhausted and Fedya weighed his options. If he stayed and slept curled around him it conveyed a romantic sort of attachment which a part of him desperately wanted but a larger, colder part of him thought was a bad idea. He pushed away the feeling of mourning as he stood and began to redress himself. Anatole looked at him with unmasked confusion and exhausted hurt.

 

        “Are you leaving, mon cher?”

 

        “I must return home sometime, Tolya, before the sun rises. I’d hate to arouse suspicion.” He pushed down the feeling of guilt that arose at his lover’s reaction to his words. They’d come out as dismissive and cold as he’d intended. Anatole struggled to stand and before he left Fedya carefully helped him to his room. No more words were exchanged that night. When Fedya left the cold night air hit his heated skin like a slap to the face, one that he welcomed. As he stared at the cold, unfeeling sky a rueful sigh escaped him. How he would’ve loved to stay tangled in his Tolya’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Please, I need you,"
> 
> It is important to note that this happens before Chapter 2.


	4. Wounds of the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov has trouble sleeping and Anatole is frightened. Trigger warning for PTSD and an accidental injury. It is sad so please skip it if you don't want a very sad Anatole and a hurt problematic Dolokhov.

        Sometimes Fedya would have dreams. They were always bleak and cold, cruelly realistic and painfully clear. He would wake trembling with his chest heaving and his blood rushing, unsure of where he was and what was happening. It took hours to calm himself after. Sometimes Fedya thought that military leave was more difficult than life on the front lines.

 

* * *

 

 

         Anatole was very much enjoying being able to sleep tangled against his Fedya again. He had missed him far more than he’d realized and his warmth was far more comforting than anyone else’s - for all his coldness in demeanor Fedya’s body was a furnace. He fell asleep quickly, happily blissful with his love safely next to him.

 

        The blonde woke slowly from his deep sleep. It was very dim in the room and must have been very late. As he blinked slowly he felt something moving next to him. This caused him to startle awake fully and he quickly realized that Fedya was what had woken him. He was twitching violently and making odd strangled sounds in his sleep - a quite alarming sight. Concern clouded his features and he reached out cautiously to touch him. He was sweating and thrashing like a man possessed and for a brief moment Anatole was genuinely frightened, but Fedya woke at his touch.

 

        Something resembling a cry tore out of Fedya’s mouth as he jolted upright. Harsh tremors ran through his body and his eyes were wild and wide in the low light. His breath came out in choked gasps as if he had to fight for each gulp of air. Every muscle in his body was tensed and the blood was rushing so loudly in his ears that he was sure it would give him away.

 

        “Fedya?” Anatole’s dulcet tone was distorted by fear. He had drawn his hand back as if it had been burned as soon as Fedya had woken. There was no response or even acknowledgement of Anatole’s existence despite the urgency in his voice. Fedya seemed trapped in his own mind, as if he were still dreaming.

 

        Anatole reached out and took his hand but Fedya suddenly wrenched it away hard enough that it hurt Anatole’s arm. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes both at the pain and the wave of fear that something was very deeply wrong. Something inside him twisted and wrenched as he noticed that tears were already sliding down Fedya’s exhausted face as well.

 

        “Fedya please, I’m frightened,” He had begun to quiet and calm, no longer thrashing and sobbing. His heart was still thundering in his chest but the ringing in his ears had quieted enough that Anatole’s terrified plea had reached him.

 

        “... Tolya?” His voice sounded off, tired and disbelieving. Hearing the wounded break in his unshakeable Fedya’s tone almost hurt more than the confusion and fear cageing Anatole’s chest. He shifted a bit, wanting to reach out to touch Fedya, to ground him, but remembering how he had pushed him away before.

 

        “Yes Fedya, I’m here. What’s going on?” Anatole sounded panicked and as Fedya began to remember where he was he grew increasingly angry with himself. He didn’t speak for quite a long time and in the silence Anatole’s fear only increased. Fedya’s movements had stopped and the morbid stillness was worse. Finally after what seemed like a lifetime to them both Fedya stood.

 

        “What are-”

 

        “Quiet, Anatole. Go back to sleep.” Fedya’s tone was cold and cutting. Anger simmered in his words and Anatole didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He began to cry softly as Fedya turned away.

 

        “I don’t understand, what’s happened?”

 

        “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” The panic in Fedya had slowly been replaced by a deep, all-consuming self-directed fury. Anatole looked as if Fedya’s words had been knives plunged deep into him.

 

        “Talk to me, mon loup, I’m frightened,” Anatole stood and approached his love but he was roughly pushed away.

 

         _“Go back to sleep, Kuragin.”_ Dolokhov’s voice was quiet but venomous. Anatole froze and his breath caught in his throat. He could only watch as Dolokhov stiffly exited the room, his pace brisk and dismissive. Anatole felt pain race through him as he sank back down to the bed and stared at the ceiling in a confused void of thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 

        After a morning of tense silence and emotionless dismissal whenever Anatole attempted to reconcile the events of the previous night, he began to treat Fedya as if nothing had happened. Things returned to normal at a surprisingly quick but imperceptible rate. In the depths of Fedya’s mind he berated himself for allowing Anatole to see him in such a vulnerable state and for being so defective as to have the problem in the first place.

 

        Though the cold unfeeling mask barred any emotion from showing on his face, the sight of the dark bruise on Anatole’s hand and the tired puffiness of his eyes hurt Fedya more than he thought possible. He took a solitary walk in the snow and injured his fist on a stone wall. Sometimes Fedya thought that military leave was more difficult than life on the front lines.


	5. His Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole plays violin and learns how much Fedya enjoys it. Some happiness after last chapter's angst - no trigger warnings.

        Anatole was surrounded beautifully by the moon outside of the thick glass balcony doors. His features sparkled in the moonlight and the delicate flicks and glides of his arm seemed almost magical. Anatole’s lovely grey eyes had slipped closed but Fedya’s were open and staring at the beautiful creature before him. Elegant music with a touch of melancholy floated from the strings of the violin and Fedya marveled at Anatole’s ability to convey so much feeling without using any words. He had never thought of Anatole as a person who was capable of such complex feeling in general, let alone through the delicate metaphor of music.

 

        Anatole felt limitless with his violin in his hands. He was everything and everywhere, somehow weightless. His breathing matched the pace of the song and every part of him seemed to sing with the violin pressed to his throat. _It’s so intimate,_ he thought, _the relationship between this instrument and I_.  His delicate fingers skipped across the strings to press complex patterns into the Violin’s neck. He had entirely forgotten that Fedya was even there he was so enveloped by the sound he was creating.

 

        After the song glided to a close Anatole bowed his head slightly as he lowered his violin. It was as if he was having a moment of remembrance for the moment that had just ended, both respectful and slightly sad. Fedya sipped his tea and listened the silence begin to ring - it was a crude thing compared to the warm notes that had previously filled the air. The moment of reverence ended softly as Anatole shifted and put his violin down. Silence continued to ring out rudely until Anatole turned and threw open the doors behind him. The freezing winter air swept inside and chilled their skin.

 

        “It’s beautiful.” Fedya stood and joined Anatole in the doorway. In the moonlight Anatole looked as if any moment wings would sprout from his delicate shoulder blades. The soft curves in his face and the elegant angles in his slim body looked almost mythical bathed in the low light. Fedya was stark in contrast - his sharp, steely angles and broad, self-assured posture made him look grounded and strong; a regal king and his sprite.

 

        “It’s cold. You’ll let the snow in.” Fedya crossed his arms and stared out over the city. Little snowflakes fell and sprinkled his dark hair and Anatole brushed a  dark curl from his forehead.

 

        “My poetic Fedya.” Anatole teased. Fedya took his hand and brushed his warm lips against his fingertips. A biting wind made Anatole shiver and blew snow into the room.

 

        “Honestly, Tolya, Hélèn will have your pretty head. Come inside.” Anatole turned and watched Fedya return to sip his tea and gaze at the violin sitting proudly on its stand. Fedya didn’t need to say anything, Anatole knew his mind. Music had always had an interesting effect on Fedya. Perhaps it was its contrast to the harsh reality he lived or the ability to lose his sense of self and forget himself, but he had no words to describe the feeling. Whenever Anatole would play Fedya would fall silent and grow pensive. His softened kisses and look of deep reverence and wonder made Anatole feel like an angel, glowing and shy at the praise from the humans around him.

 

        “Do you play anything Fedya? You seem to enjoy music…” Anatole shut the doors and kicked slightly at the small scattering of snow on the carpet. Fedya’s eyes slipped closed and he shook his head, an unreadable expression on his face.

 

        “We never had instruments in the house.” _We couldn’t afford them._ The unspoken explanation hung in the air. Anatole smiled slightly, not mocking or pitying - simply glad that he could bring his lover something he enjoyed. He went and picked his violin back up. His fingers were a bit stiff from the cold but he paid no mind.

 

        “I think I’ll play a little more.” A small smile graced Fedya’s face and Anatole’s heart sang his happiness through the delicate vibrations of bow against strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was purely self indulgent - I love the violin and needed some fluff after writing the last chapter.


	6. The Chill of Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatole makes Fedya jealous and he reacts with the coldness and the heat that one would expect. TW for very rough sex, cum eating (which sounds a lot more vulgar than it is in the fanfiction), and lots of bruising. The prompt of jealousy was requested by hobbeshalftail3469

        The club was crowded. It was a cheaper sort of place, smoky and dim, and was in all honesty more of a brothel than a club. Anatole and Dolokhov often went to these places together and it didn’t usually bother either of them. Anatole hadn’t thought twice about Dolokhov having other partners - he didn’t care in the slightest either way. Dolokhov himself knew that Anatole would seek pleasure from whoever he pleased and accepted it as long as he wasn’t there to see it. As long as at the end of the night Anatole would come back to be his.

 

        Anatole was slightly drunk and clinging to Dolokhov as they entered - they’d already indulged in some of Anatole’s expensive wine before they’d left - and Dolokhov felt a swell of pride curl his mouth into a smile as all eyes turned to them. This was a place they frequented quite often as they did not care or perhaps simply did not notice if you were seducing a man or a woman. Often, there would be groups with even three or four people.

 

        Dolokhov quickly headed to the small, cheap bar. He held his alcohol more strongly than his spritely companion and needed more than the few glasses of wine he’d had earlier. He ordered himself two glasses of vodka and quickly drained the first one, turning to look for his Anatole in the crowd as he sipped his second. The pleasant burn and subsequent deep warmth turned bitter and cold as soon as he spotted him.

 

        Anatole was enjoying the pleasure of the crowd and had smiled coyly at a tall, broad man gazing hungrily at him. In a blur of movement and sounds the man had his arms around  his waist and they were kissing breathlessly. No thoughts of Dolokhov even entered his mind as he brushed his tongue against the man’s lip. His lips felt so rough and forceful against Anatole’s and he shivered as the man reached around to rest his hand on the small of his back.

 

        Dolokhov’s steely eyes held their gaze on the couple and he finished his second glass quickly as well. Below the cold rage there was a small piece of him that hurt. It cried out that the soft moments they shared and the passion they felt for each other should prevent Anatole from doing such things with any other man, but the angry rush of his blood and the stubborn insistence that the selfish prince couldn’t hurt him muted such a vulnerable voice and blotted out the pain. The room rushed around him and a woman kissed his jaw and his neck, roaming her hands over his clothed chest, but he did not care. His vision was tunneled on his whore of a prince.

 

        Something in him snapped and he carelessly pushed the woman away. Fighting through the crowd was not difficult and Dolokhov pushed anyone in his way aside. People soon began to stare and the cold sardonic smile on his face frightened them enough not to protest. He crossed his arms and stood in front of Anatole, still too lost in kisses and touches to see him there. With a sharp glance from Dolokhov’s cutting blue eyes the crowd went back to its business. He wanted to be able to return here in the future.

 

        “Enjoying yourself, _slut?”_ Fedya’s voice was cutting and clear. Anatole let out a small whine as the man turned from his kiss-bruised lips. God, he sounded so needy and open to the stranger. Dolokhov glared at them and put his hand on Anatole’s shoulder in a steely grip. The man was a deal taller than him but his size didn’t daunt him in the slightest.

 

        “Stop interrupting, it’s clear that he wants me.” Anatole moaned sinfully in agreement and Dolokhov bristled at the way his _new man_ sneered at him. Dolokhov simply grinned at him and squared himself, holding back the strong urge to suffocate the idiot where he stood.

 

        “If you’d prefer to leave this establishment without a bullet in your chest, I’d advise you to cease dishonouring the russian language with your speech and move away from what is _mine._ ” One look at the fury bubbling steadily in Dolokhov’s eyes told the man that he was serious. After a final maddening kiss to Anatole’s neck he withdrew to find another pliant young man amongst the crowd. Anatole pouted his pretty lips as his fingers went to graze against his neck, quirking his eyebrows down at the loss of pleasure. When Dolokhov grabbed his wrist and pulled him away hard enough to hurt slightly he whined and followed obediently.

 

* * *

 

 

      Fedya pushed Anatole down onto the bed roughly. He wasted no time in climbing on top of him and tangling his rough fingers in his smooth, sculpted hair. Anatole whimpered as he pulled hard and bit his lip viciously. As Fedya ground his hips down onto him pleasure mixed with the pain Anatole felt and further clouded his mind. He bit and sucked a deep bruise into his neck where the man had left his final kiss and wasted no time in stripping Anatole naked though he himself didn’t remove a single article of clothing.

 

        He painted purples and blues across Anatole’s pale skin with his teeth and scratched angry lines down his sides and back. All of the simultaneous pleasure and pain overstimulated him and his arousal showed clearly through his trembling body and twitching erection. Fedya smiled wickedly as he pushed his trousers and undergarments down just enough to free his own arousal and slicked himself in oil from the drawer next to the bed.

 

        With very little warning and no preparation he began to push himself into Anatole. He growled with satisfaction at the cry that Anatole gave. The deep stretch that he felt burned with both an intense pleasure and an insistent pain. He shook and quaked around Fedya as he pushed farther into him steadily, gripping at the sheets, Fedya’s clothes, anything that he could grasp. He finally fisted them in Fedya’s shirt hard enough that his knuckles turned white but as soon as Fedya was fully hilted inside of him he pulled Anatole’s hands up and pinned them above his head.

 

        “ _You’re mine and only mine, Tolya.”_ His voice was possessive and cutting and he spat out the affectionate nickname as an insult. He gave Anatole no time to adjust around him and quickly began a fast, brutal pace. _“Moaning and whining for that man like a filthy slut,”_ he articulated each phrase with a deep thrust that made Anatole’s vision spin, _“I want you to cry out my name like the whore you are,”_ Anatole was whining and crying out with each gasping exhale. A fiery pressure was building in Fedya’s core and he knew he was close.

 

        “Say it. You’re _mine only.”_ Anatole whimpered and gasped out the words in a sinfully wrecked voice.

 

         _“I’m only yours, mon loup, please-”_ Fedya released inside of him and let go of his hands, moving to hold his hips hard enough to leave dark red marks. Tears of overstimulation shone at the corners of Anatole’s eyes and he choked out a moan. When Fedya was finished he pulled out of him harshly and stared down at Anatole’s used body. He was still moaning and shaking under him, his neglected cock dripping with precum. Fedya ghosted his hand teasingly over him and then stood, wiping himself off and tucking himself back into his trousers. Anatole whined at the thought of Fedya leaving him still needy and desperate.

 

        “No, Fedya, please help me- please, I need you,” Fedya glanced at him with a vicious smirk on his face.

 

        “Finish yourself, блядь,” The russian profanity rolled harshly off of his tongue and satisfaction snaked through him as Anatole obeyed without question. Once Anatole had spilled over his own stomach, moaning loudly enough that Fedya was sure the whole brothel would hear, he kissed him roughly and licked a line of his finish off of him.

 

        “Clean yourself so we can leave.” Fedya left the room with the taste of Anatole still lingering on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't start out with this leading to smut but here we are.  
> Mon loup - My wolf in French  
> блядь - Whore in Russian

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a request feel free to comment below or email me at amomeneedup@gmail.com. Thank you!


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